I thought about what would happen if I didn’t come back. The sadness of not seeing my family set in; it was a sorrowful few minutes. But then another realization came barreling in. Who was going to clean out all my stuff? The farewell message forming in my head took a drastic turn from maudlin and melancholy to an earnest apology letter that went something like this:

To whomever is tasked with getting rid of my stuff: I am very, very sorry. I don’t know how this happened. I suspect the convergence of enormous sentiment paired with practical saving led to the pile known as “Louise’s stuff.” I’m sorry it’s up to you to dispose of it. I realize that what carried a memory for me will mean nothing to anyone else. So don’t worry about getting rid of most of it. Apparently, I’m done with it now.

First, I’m sorry about the books. I read all of them, threw out the ones I didn’t like and kept the ones I did, harboring a belief I’d read them again. So all those bookshelves are filled with unmet intentions. Perhaps you can give them to someone still in the collection phase of book keeping.

Next, bag up the clothes and send them to the thrift store. They’re in good shape, but there’s no fashion sense to them whatsoever. I don’t have a “look” or “style.” I just wore what I liked. One day was flowy and billowy, the next day was crisp and sharp. I didn’t dress for others. I dressed for me.

Sorry about the file cabinets. I’d get an idea of some direction I wanted to take, grab a new file folder, paste a label on the tab, insert a paper of information to begin that new file and then never open it again. Toss the papers, rip off the tabs and you’ll have a whole collection of new folders.

Listen carefully at my funeral for someone to admire my gardening skills and offer my set of gardening tools to her. Remind her they’re broken in and have a great track record. Speaking of gardening, don’t sell the hundreds of canning jars in the basement. Give them away to someone who actually does canning and can prove it with photos. She earned them.

Sorry there are so many plants. I’m not a plant hoarder — I’m a plant doctor. I never bought a lush new plant; I bought the sad, withered ones marked “clearance” and nursed them back to health. They responded well. Especially that fern. They’re used to being watered once a week on Tuesdays.

The genealogy is going to be your biggest problem. All my siblings breathed a sigh of relief when I took on the family archives. One of them is going to have to decide which bedroom in their house they’ll devote to the collection. Or one of my kids. Just don’t let anyone throw it away. Otherwise, the genealogist in me will come back to haunt you — and I will bring friends.

Finally, I hope my kids will want my writing collection. “The Homefront” columns are housed in binders in my office — all 42 years of them. Remind my kids I never kept baby books; I just wrote columns about them. So if they want a record of their childhood, that’s where they’ll find it.

… Well, I made it back from my vacation. I didn’t bring souvenirs this time — less to throw out later. This has been a great mental study of life’s priorities. The reality for us all is we have from today until the day we’re gone to figure out what really matters.

It won’t be our “stuff.”

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.